


Cat's Cradle

by Reiya_Wakayama



Series: The Cat's Meow [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Therapy, cat!Sherlock, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently discharged from the army for his injured shoulder, John decides he should follow his therapist’s advice for once. He’s about to get more than he asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I just got this random image of Sherlock as a cat after my cat gave me a look that clearly said I was an idiot, dull and that I should either scratch her or leave. Similarity much? I can just imagine John adopting Sherlock, i.e. Sherlock allows him to become his dutiful servant, and going on random adventures.

“God damn it, Sherlock. I am not your pillow.” John growled out in frustration.

Cool, sharp gray eyes gazed up at him with such disdain that he felt a little embarrassed for his outburst. Seeing John crumpling under his gaze, Sherlock just blinked slowly and settled back down, head resting on John’s thigh.

Sighing in defeat, he reached down to scratch the cat between his ears, listening to the soft rumble of his purr, surprisingly deep in such a small creature. Looking down, he saw Sherlock’s eyes half closed in bliss. He was the strangest cat’s John had ever known. For one thing, he rarely slept, unlike most cats who slept whenever and wherever they felt like.

He was also more observant than other creatures, so observant that he seemed to be thinking, looking almost human in the eyes. He roamed the flat constantly, and at odd hours of the night and was prone to disappear at random moments as he explored outside. John had stopped worrying about that particular trait about a month into their so called association, for he always returned sooner or later. Often covered in dirt and other things he didn’t try to identify, sometimes scraped up from scuffles with other cats.

He didn’t know what had made him decide to follow his therapist’s advice that his depression was because he had become accustomed to taking care of someone, or multiple someones due to the army, and that he just needed someone or something to take care of to get through it. She had even suggested him getting a pet, something that would be dependent on him but would not need overly much attention.

It was his friend Mike Stamford, though, that had cemented the idea. They had met the same day his therapist had given the idea, as he headed home through the park. They had gotten to talking and John had mentioned it in passing. Mike had jumped at it, telling him about the shelter he volunteered at on the weekends.

The next day, they had gone to look through the many animals. John had thought about what he would like and had come to one conclusion: a cat. Easy to care for and didn’t need much attention unless they wanted it which was fine with him. And his landlady had already given the go ahead, Mrs. Hudson positively ecstatic over the idea of a fuzzy cat to pet.

He had briefly though about getting a dog and had decided not to. It wasn’t that he disliked dogs, but when he was little, he had been bitten by one and had been wary ever since. So he had gone out the next morning to get a few things: a food and water dish, a bag of dry food and a couple of cans of wet food in case the cat was a picky eater, a few toys which he had grabbed at random from the cat isle in the pet store, and a collar. He would get tags and papers once everything was settled.

As he walked among the many cages looking at the small cats of all shades, markings, and sizes, he finally realized how much pressure there was in choosing one. For one, they were all looking at him with such large, watery eyes that he wanted to adopt them all. But he was here for only one. Squaring his shoulders as much as he could with his shoulder wound still paining him, he set about picking just one.

He was feeling a little disheartened as none stood out to him, when he heard the sound of a cat hissing and screeching at the top of its lungs. Growls followed a harried looking vet assistant as she scrambled from the end of the hall where only a single cage stood apart from the rest.

Walking up, he peered inside. Hard, gray eyes glared back at him, black curly fur on end as the cat lay curled in a ball in the back of its cage. A clipboard was hung off to the side and had his name scribbled onto the paper: Sherlock.

“You know, you shouldn’t do that to those trying to help you. It’s not nice.” He said softly to the cat, looking him square in the eye. He blinked slowly and the glare disappeared to be replaced by curiosity.

His tail flicked in contempt at his words and he curled up, back to John, ignoring him. Snorting in amusement, he opened the cage door, reaching in slowly. Quick as lightening, Sherlock flipped over, claws and teeth sinking into his arm and the web of skin and muscle between thumb and forefinger. He just gritted his teeth, keeping his hand perfectly still as Sherlock gnawed at his appendage.

As quickly as he had struck, he let go, glaring balefully. Finally, he gave a sort of huffed sigh, as if to say _“You’ll do”_.

“Oh, dear.” Mike had come up behind him and saw the bloody mess of his hand. “We should probably get that looked at.” John nodded, giving Sherlock’s head a pat as he closed the cage.

Ten minutes later, he was back at his cage, hand bandaged and a determined gleam in his eye. Sherlock beat him to it though, jumping out of the cage onto him as soon as he got the door open. He clawed up his jumper to curl around his neck and shoulders, a solid, but skinny, line of warmth and fur. He gave a yowl that sounded like a command for him to get a move on and John followed with wry grin.

The main vet looked astonished at his choice, but said nothing of it, going through the usual procedures. In fact, she looked almost relieved to be rid of the cat. The vet assistant looked on sadly, blond hair pulled back and face pale under the harsh lighting of the room. Her name tag read out Molly.

It was now three months later and they had settled into a routine around each other. The first week was a bit of an awkward one as they got used to each other. Sherlock ignored him for the most part. He picked at his food, giving it a sniff and wrinkling his nose but still taking a nibble anyways. His toys, he batted with once and then ignored, already bored with them. The collar was never put on. Sherlock had taken one look at him with the collar in his hand and had bristled, back arched.

Sighing in defeat, he put it away. For the most part they saw little of each other, Sherlock hiding in the flat or disappearing outside while John was home and only reappearing as John set off for work. By the end of the second week, Sherlock must have decided it was counterproductive to ignore John, for one morning, he woke to his cold nose poking into his neck and a demanding yowl for him to get up and feed him.

After that, it seemed to get easier for the two. They still mostly ignored each other, but sometime when John sat with his cup of tea and biscuits, reading the paper, watching telly or just surfing the internet, Sherlock would climb up onto the couch and slowly inch closer and closer until he was pressed up against John’s leg. When John absentmindedly scratched his head, the cat had just purred, startling the ex-army doctor into stopping. Sherlock had shot a glare at him and he had started back up again.

Now, months later, it seemed that that first month was just a dim memory. If at all John suspected his cat was going to be the center for more trouble than he wanted, well he didn’t show it. Instead, he threw the now empty biscuit box after the streak of black fur that was Sherlock, yelling, “That was the last biscuit, you thief! Now I’ll have to go to the store.” Sherlock just flicked his tail, munching on his stolen prize and twitched an uncaring ear at the volume of his voice.

 **End.**


End file.
